Voice (17 page)

Erin left to go to her next appointment, but Case stayed at the table, drinking water and watching the birds hassle the customers. She had no doubt that Erin would be happy to listen to her outpouring of misery and woe, no doubt at all that Erin would be sympathetic and supportive and listen without judging or laughing—and no doubt whatsoever that she herself would feel completely pathetic by the end of her little ad hoc therapy session.

The show had been great, and afterward there had been the usual flood of interested male parties anxious to get acquainted. That was old news. She’d started thinking of them, probably owing to her own sporadic and flagging job hunt, as applicants, short for Applicants for the Position. (“What position?” “All of them.” Erin had laughed herself silly when Case had explained the term.) Most times the applicants aggravated her, trying her patience with dim pickup lines and effusive, ignorant praise. Some nights, though, the attention really
was
flattering; to be perfectly, nauseatingly honest about it, it made her feel sexy. Some of that was a feeling of sexual power, as if she could simply point at any man she wanted and say, “You. Over here,” and he would comply, willingly and enthusiastically. The control was intoxicating. Some of it, though—a tiny sliver, she assured herself—was a simple feeling of being desired. Just feeling sexy.

Chains hooked to a whole fleet of tractors couldn’t have dragged that admission out of her, though she thought that if she talked to Erin long enough, Erin would somehow summon it forth in that insidious, chipper way she had. Erin would probably understand, too, and she’d likely be smart enough to know that this was not an area where even gentle mockery would be welcome.

Case threw a chip at one of the birds. The wind caught it and spun it past the bird. She threw another, harder. It, too, missed.

The line of applicants had looked especially promising after the show, and it had been one of those nights where she’d felt desirable, felt like she wanted to be desired. She’d gotten off the stage, flushed, sweaty, and overcharged, practically humming with energy, and a small crowd had already been waiting for her. It had been all she could do to plow a path through them and get her gear stowed. She had even felt talkative, and she’d culled a couple of the most promising applicants for further evaluation.

And then, in the middle of conversation (Emerson was the smart, funny one, but Greg claimed to be a personal trainer and certainly looked the part—oh, decisions, decisions), she saw Danny, clear across the room, darting glances her way despite himself. He looked miserable, and it seemed he was trying to self-medicate with copious amounts of alcohol. He downed two shots between furtive glances in her direction. The luster of a post-show hookup and sweaty, frantic, no-strings-attached sex until the small hours of the morning dimmed, faded, and was gone in the time it took to turn her head back to the conversation. Just like that, Emerson became the lame one who was trying too hard, and Greg turned into the King of the Narcissists. The light was suddenly flat and harsh, her mouth tasted like she’d swallowed something dead, and everything was too loud.

She left them without even excusing herself (Erin, she noted, swooped in behind her and attacked the two rejected applicants with the mailing list), threw her shit in the car, and went home straightaway.

That had been two nights ago, and she’d been frustrated and pissed off ever since.

Maybe I really should try to talk about it with Erin,
she thought as she threw another chip. But, really, what was Erin going to tell her? Danny—Danny the drummer, Danny the peacemaker, Danny the big oaf who had somehow, through the music experience, pheromones, or some kind of clandestine voodoo he practiced in the dead of night, wrapped up her head so thoroughly that she was actively turning away attractive, available men in favor of going home and doing something that looked suspiciously like
pining
for God’s sake,
fucking married
Danny—was, well,
fucking married.

She had told Erin that, a year ago, it wouldn’t have mattered. She’d have done what she wanted to do anyway. She thought that was true. But now there was the band, which she really did care about, no matter what Johnny might think, and which was delicately balanced enough. And there was Danny, who—again, Erin had seen this in her uncanny way—she also cared about.

And, maybe most important, maybe she didn’t want to be—as Erin had so aptly put it—a
stone-cold bitch
anymore.

So, she
could
talk about all this with Erin, but it would be humiliating, and what would Erin say? What could she say? Case wasn’t looking for permission to do whatever she wanted, and she doubted Erin would give it to her. She was stuck.

No, that wasn’t strictly true, she realized. She could see Erin grinning and laughing.
You want to get over this thing with Danny,
Erin was saying in her mind,
then you need to accept an applicant.

Alone at the table, Case nodded. Of course. A smile came to her lips.

Thanks, Erin!

***

Johnny threw the
Observer
in the trash with disgust. Then he dug it out again, leafed through until he found the snippet of a review, and read it again.

There were no customers in the Starbucks, so he decided he’d stretch his break just a few more minutes. He got out his phone and dialed his brother’s cell number.

“Danny?”

“Everything okay?”

“No. Did you see the review of our show in the
Observer
?”

“What? No, I’ve been working.”

“Well then, listen to this bullshit.”

“Later. I’ve got a meeting in five minutes.”

“It’s short,” Johnny said, making no attempt to hide the bitterness in his voice.

“Yeah, okay.” Danny’s sigh sounded like static over the phone. “Go.”

Johnny read the short review. By the end of it, his voice was clipped, almost strangled-sounding. “How do you like that?” he said.

He could hear the shrug in Danny’s voice. “Sounds okay. They said to come check us out.”

“Sounds
okay
? Motherfuckers called us trashy and derivative!” Johnny was standing now, pacing the floor outside the bathroom in quick, jerky steps.

“Come on, man. You know what they say—any publicity is good publicity. And they
did
say to come check us out.”

“They said
Case
is worth checking out.”

“They did not.”

“Well, we got three fucking sentences, and one of them is all about her. The rest of us might as well have been spectators, as far as they’re concerned.”

“It’s not that bad,” Danny insisted in that infuriatingly calm voice.

“Do you have
no
fucking pride? Or maybe you’d take this more personally if you hadn’t spent the whole night looking morose and making cow-eyes at her.”

“Cool it,” Danny said. He was still calm, though. Probably thinking something like,
Oh, there goes Johnny again. I’ll have to have a little talk with him later and make him feel better, and then everything will be fine.

“I don’t know if I
can
cool it,” Johnny said. “I got half a mind to call up that numbnuts over at the
Observer
office and—”

“And what? Tell him his opinion sucks? Grow up, Johnny.”

“Fuck you.” Johnny mashed the button to end the call. The phone started ringing almost immediately. Danny, probably wanting to talk him off the ledge or maybe even apologize. Too bad. Sure, Danny hadn’t felt bad about the review. It wasn’t like he’d actually written any of the “trashy” and “derivative” songs. And of course he didn’t care that Case got all the coverage—he was thinking with his dick, just like the motherfucking reviewer. Johnny didn’t know what to do about Case, but he was starting to get an idea what to do about Danny. A pretty good idea.

“Hey,” Drew said from behind the counter. “We got customers.”

“They can wait,” Johnny said, and he dialed the phone. It rang a few times, and he tapped his foot impatiently. After the third ring, somebody picked up.

“Hello, this is Gina.”

“Hey Gina, it’s John.”

“Oh. Hi. What’s up?” Her voice was too bright, almost brittle. Johnny thought she probably expected an emergency, or maybe she thought he needed money—he wasn’t in the habit of calling her, after all.

“Nothing much,” he said. He was talking too fast, he realized. He continued, making an effort to sound calm. “I was wondering if Danny had told you about our next show.”

“Yes, John.” She sounded irritated now. “He tells me about all of your shows.”

“Did he tell you how excited he is?”

“Not really. He’s always pretty happy to play.”

“I think he’s really charged up about this one, though. We’re getting pretty good now, and there’s supposed to be a big turnout. We’re opening for Lost Soul Orchestra.” That was true, though Johnny had never heard of Lost Soul Orchestra before seeing them on the bill, and he doubted Danny had either. It sounded important, and that was what counted.

“That’s very nice. Look, John, I have to go.”

“Wait! I’ll be quick. It’s just that Danny, well—he’s really looking forward to this show. I think he’d really like it if you came.”

A pause. “He said that?”

“He didn’t come out and directly say anything, but you know how he is. He did tell me you probably wouldn’t make this show, and he seemed really bummed. He doesn’t usually bring that sort of thing up, so I guess it’s been on his mind a lot. I think he’s worried that if he says anything to you, you’ll feel obligated to come, and you know how Danny is.”

“Yeah,” Gina said. Her tone had softened considerably. “He wouldn’t want to inconvenience anyone, even if he had to saw off his own leg.”

Johnny chuckled. “That’s it. Anyway, I know you’re pretty busy. I don’t want you to feel obligated either, but I thought you ought to know.”

“Thanks, John. I appreciate that. Maybe I’ll come see you guys after all. When’s the show?”

“It’s the fourth of October at the Cavern. We start early. Ten o’clock.”

“All right. I really have to go now.”

“Take it easy. And thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Bye.” She hung up.

Johnny closed his phone and slipped it into his pocket.
That was uncalled-for,
a small voice said. He shook his head.
No. I’m just looking out for my brother, that’s all. That’s all.

“Hey!” Drew said from behind the counter. “If you’re done calling your broker, I could use some help back here.”

“Would you stop that?” Johnny asked. He folded the corner of his journal back and forth, back and forth. “You’re making me
nervous.”

Danny pulled his gaze away from the door one more time. It was early yet, and the small club was nearly empty, but people were starting to trickle in. Every time the door opened, Danny checked to see if his wife had arrived. Every time somebody else came in, he felt a mixture of relief and guilt.

“I can’t help it. Gina’s coming. I’m nervous,” Danny said. “Because I want us to play well,” he added quickly.

“Gina’s coming? Cool. The more the merrier.”

Johnny’s phony tone of surprise told Danny everything. What was it Johnny had said?
I think you should invite her to the next show.
Yeah, that was it. And he’d hassled Danny about it for weeks.

“What did you tell her?” Danny asked.

“Nothing,” Johnny said. His tone of innocence was even more phony than his tone of surprise.

“Try again, or I’m going home right now,” Danny said. He wasn’t sure that he meant it, but he was sorely, sorely tempted.

“You can’t do that!” Johnny said, and his shock was genuine, at least. “Look, that’s—”

The door opened, and this time Johnny craned his neck to look over his shoulder even as Danny looked up.

Gina stood framed in the doorway, an expression of mild distaste on her face.

“Gina!” Johnny shouted, waving frantically. “Over here!” He turned back to Danny and lowered his voice. “I told her it would mean a lot to you if she came. Don’t make a big deal out of this, okay?”

Danny opened his mouth, but he didn’t have any words to supply. Gina was already at the table. What would he say?
Gee, honey, I know Johnny said it would mean a lot to me if you came to the show, but really I’d rather you went far away. That way, I don’t have to feel guilty about the affair I’m not having with our guitarist.
The guitarist who was, by the by, sitting two tables down with Erin and a few of Erin’s entourage. Danny made an effort not to look in that direction—not even remotely in that direction.

“You made it!” he said to Gina. He got up from his chair to hug her, and he swore he felt Case’s eyes on him the whole time. He glanced over at the other table, but Case was engrossed in conversation.

Gina sat. Quentin, sitting with one of his buddies at the next table, gave her a small smile, and she waved. 

“Where’s the guitar player?” Gina asked.

Johnny pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “She’s over there. She’s the surly one.”